


viva las vegas

by janie_tangerine



Series: the jaimebrienne spite countdown to season eight [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Pawn Stars (TV)
Genre: (bc bronn and jaime have zero quibbles about it sorry not sorry), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brienne is the Best, Bronn as the only real mvp, Crack Treated Seriously, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Las Vegas Wedding, Love at First Sight, Mentions of Elvis Presley Songs, Minor Renly Baratheon/Loras Tyrell, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Spitefic, Swearing, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wedding Rings, Weddings, accidental crossover, sandor clegane's WTF IS GOING ON DAY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 17:10:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18154682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: “Yeah,” Tyrion says, sounding fairly perplexed, “please give me some updates here because Cersei has been screeching about Jaime being in Vegas with some kind of whore for the last hour or so but no one has really got the details. The fuck?”Bronn tries to not laugh his ass off. “Nah, that wasn’t a whore. She was this girl your brother chatted up at a bar. They got pleasurably drunk together, they liked each other, she apparently couldn’t stand Cersei treating him like shit on the phone and told her off, and now they’re getting married.”“Interesting, now — wait, what?”“He’s marrying her.”Or: in which both of them meet in Las Vegas and it's love at first sight.





	viva las vegas

**Author's Note:**

> HI EVERYONE AND WELCOME TO PART FOUR OF THE SPITE COUNTDOWN!
> 
> AAAAND OKAY GUYS THIS HAS LONG NOTES.
> 
> So: today's anonymous piece of wisdom for the century from that month full of wank that apparently was december 2015 is:
> 
> Because apparently _that_ means anything when it comes to falling for people. Idek. Anyway, the moment I read it I went like EXCELLENT THEN LAS VEGAS WEDDING WHERE THEY BARELY MET it is, which then turned into 'okay wait if they go to Vegas THEY SHOULD HAVE ELVIS MARRYING THEM', which then turned into my italian self deciding it was time to learn and going like 'okay wait I'VE GOT TO RESEARCH ELVIS WEDDINGS' which turned into an afternoon of looking into it and finding out that THERE ARE THEMED WEDDINGS THAT ARE NOT JUST ELVIS OH MY GOD I WANT TO GET VEGAS-MARRIED TOO THIS IS MIND-OPENING (no guys I'm 100% serious I want the wedding in the epilogue for myself I'm not joking xD) and looking up where the places were and so on, and as far this part of this madness is concerned many thanks to tumblr user robb-greyjoy for the soundboard AND for suggesting who was going to be the elvis impersonator xD
> 
> THEN, I was discussing this madness of a fic with tumblr user electricalice and I went like 'so they're getting rings at this pawn shop that according to the map is in between the chapel and the marriage certificate office', then she goes like 'wait is that the one from the TV show', and THAT was when I learned that _Pawn Stars_ existed and that I had sent them to THAT specific pawn shop without realizing it, I watched a couple eps and realized that Bronn would _totally_ be into it and so this turned into an accidental crossover BECAUSE I HAD TO OKAY. The rings are actually on the shop's official website I came up with nothing. HAVE THE EXTRA CRACK THAT WAS NOT INCLUDED IN THE ORIGINAL PLAN and see you tomorrow with less cracky stuff, but I figured after yesterday's angst it was a good idea to alternate xD
> 
> I would like to state, just for science:
> 
> \- The bars are fictional;  
> \- The weddings are *not*, I looked up the details on the respective chapels's websites;  
> \- I know that there's no way the themed weddings don't get booked at least days in advance but JUST PRETEND IN THIS CASE THEY DO;  
> \- I researched stuff but I've never been to LV so like, pls forgive me for getting shit most likely wrong;  
> \- [This is the kind of wedding we're talking about](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jpm5HpCmLEk).
> 
> Also: as everyone guessed already the title is from Elvis, I own nothing except for the crack (not even the rings since they're for sale XDD), I'll saunter back downwards now. ;)

“This,” Jaime tells Bronn as he downs an excellent glass of bourbon that he’s pretty sure costs an arm, _but_ given how much money he has just won at blackjack he couldn’t care less, never mind that if anything at least _he_ can certainly afford it, “is the _best_ idea you’ve ever had.”

“Well, sure as fuck _I_ agree with it,” Bronn says as he downs his half of Jack Daniels too. Well, Jaime reasons, _of course_ he’d agree with it, since they’re in Las Vegas and Jaime’s paying for the entire trip, but then again after what happened a week ago —

Rewind: a week ago, the _Sun_ ran a twenty-pages long exclusive breaking news story about Cersei’s engagement to Rhaegar Targaryen, which apparently has been in the works for _months_.

Months during which she had _never_ hinted at anything of the kind when she was with _him_ , which meant that the breaking news story felt like the coldest shower in existence. Jaime had called her first thing asking for explanations, and she laughed the way you do when someone tells you something you find so hilarious you could weep, _patiently_ explained him that she couldn’t give up a marriage that would also mean merging with Targaryen Corp., never mind that apparently she’s had a crush on Rhaegar since they were _kids_ and Father brought them along to Aerys’s insufferable Sunday dinners during which Jaime’s only salvation was that they put him at the end of the table to make sure Tyrion _behaved himself_ and so they could basically avoid the entire circus. Not at all like her marriage to Robert Baratheon, but for _that_ one, she always was opposed, only did it because Father insisted and she assured him over and over that _he_ was the only one for her and he’d keep on being the only one after the inevitable divorce.

Which had arrived. Except that now she’s _marrying someone else_ and she’s certainly _not_ opposed.

Never mind that such a wedding would _mend the fracture between them which was his damned fault_ , because of course it’s _his_ fault if when his father forced him to go for an internship in Aerys’s PA department he had realized that the guy was fucking embezzling half of the money and stealing from about anyone in the company, and he couldn’t exactly _not_ go to the police with it. Rhaegar hadn’t even hated him for it, he merely said that he hoped he could fix things when he took his father’s place, but his father never really forgave him for that.

Because, _now_ he learned it, it brought his plans for Cersei and Rhaegar’s marriage to a halt.

 _Obviously_.

But now it’s being fixed, so it doesn’t matter anymore, and anyway, as Cersei so eloquently put it, he really didn’t think they were going to last forever now, did he?

Well.

He doesn’t know about _that_.

But _she_ was the one telling him that same thing all along, since he can bloody damn well remember, and let’s just say that he has wholly forgotten the next five hours after that call.

Then Bronn had showed up because Tyrion sent him, being rightfully worried, had taken a look at him and at the five empty bottles of _whatever_ he had in his liquor cabinet, forced him to dunk his head in a basin of icy water and told him that he needed a distraction.

“Yeah, and what do you suggest?” Jaime had asked.

Bronn had stared at him and shrugged. “I’ve heard going to Las Vegas and wasting a bunch of money at the first casino you find works wonders.”

Somehow, that had seemed an entirely reasonable solution.

So Jaime had went online after sobering up, bought two tickets one-way — he can buy one to go back to the UK whenever he feels like going — and told Bronn that they had their plane in six hours.

“Shit,” Bronn had said, “you _really_ did that?”

“Sure,” Jaime had shrugged. “Never been to Vegas anyway. Why the fuck not. Not sleeping for a week seems like a good idea.”

So: they took the plane, slept the jet-lag off the entire first day after Jaime spent a bunch of money on the first four-star hotel that looked halfway decent on Tripadvisor, then they found a casino in the early afternoon.

Apparently, Jaime has a knack for blackjack and Bronn has a knack for poker, so in the span of hours they gained back enough money to cover for the tickets _and_ the hotel room for a week, not that he needed them, but that was nice.

“Great,” Bronn had said. “Now I think we should try the bar around the corner. And the next one after.”

“Shit,” Jaime had replied, “you know what, I’m _so_ glad Tyrion befriended you when he did.”

“I’m flattered. So, you buying?”

“Sure,” he had said.

Now they’re at the second bar, he’s pleasurably buzzed and honestly, he’s had two whiskeys on the rocks and one bourbon, there’s going to be space for a _lot_ more before he starts getting affected, and fuck, Americans sure as fuck know how to party _and_ to sell excellent alcohol around here. Also, it’s still what, seven PM? Fuck it, he has until dawn to get drunk to his heart’s delight, and if he has missing calls from both his father and Cersei, _well_ , he’s not going to take them.

He asks for another round, then clinks it against Bronn’s glass and downs another half.

Then his cellphone buzzes.

He takes it out, opens it — his Facebook notifications are exploding, and it’s even _private_. Damn it. He opens it to turn them off, and of course he has to get into the app, where a picture of Cersei and Rhaegar _chastely_ kissing in their father’s living room shows up like a fucking punch in the face.

His good mood disappears into thin air, and he sighs as he decides that he’s _done_ with at least feeling miserable.

He mutes Cersei — unfriending her would be a colossally bad idea, he has the gut feeling — and turns the notifications off. Better.

“You know,” Bronn says, sounding like he’s still completely sober after staring at his now-dejected face for a while, “if you _really_ wanted to give your ass of a sister a proper, giant fuck you, you should find someone else to french _and_ post that on Facebook.”

“You don’t even have one,” Jaime replies, even if he has a feeling that’s not the point, but he’s tipsy and his brain isn’t exactly running at all cylinders. “What would you know?”

“Please,” he says, “you people are on that hellish thing for the entire fucking day and you just started looking like some sort of bloody sad drenched kitten the moment you opened it, if she’s like you — and I know she’s _worse_ when it comes to posturing on social media — she’d see it. And I have a feeling she’d hate seein’ you with anyone else than the contrary.”

“And how would you know that?”

Bronn sends him the _least_ impressed look Jaime can ever remember seeing on him. “I’ve been around your lot for some ten years, I _think_ I learned how you all tick and honestly, she’s the most fucking unhinged out of the three of you. Not to say that you and your brother aren’t a piece of work, but at least you don’t have undiagnosed narcissism disorder. Anyway, if what I _gathered_ about the two of you is true, you’d _greatly_ benefit by getting bloody laid and trying out cunts that aren’t hers and are actually the good kind of. I said my piece,” he declares, and swallows another sip. “Damn, this is _good_.”

Jaime considers it.

Thing is: that’s exceedingly good talk, but he’s never even been with anyone else than Cersei because he didn’t _look_ at anyone else. He didn’t even let himself think about doing it. And as much as he certainly has had offers, he always shrugged them off. He doesn’t even know how he’d go about hitting on someone.

Still.

He takes a look around the bar. There _are_ women, sure. But a lot of them remind him of Cersei _somehow_ — none _looks_ like her, sure, but all of them have the same styled haircut, wear expensive clothes or dresses and twelve-inch stilettos, all of them have perfect make-up and manicured hands, and Jaime doesn’t feel like hitting on any of them.

Hell. He always thought that love was a _serious_ thing, that you couldn’t be with people you didn’t feel _something_ for, or that weren’t compatible, and he never saw the appeal in fucking women he happened to find attractive to the eye without anything behind it. The idea of putting a move on someone just to make Cersei jealous doesn’t have that much appeal beyond the basic spite.

“I don’t know,” he says, “no one looks very appealing.”

Bronn takes a look around. “Yeah, guess this is too high class if you’re coming from _her_. Fuck, I can’t believe I’m saying it out fucking loud. Well, next one then. We’re going for less stuck-up. I doubt the alcohol’s going to be bad anyway.”

“Cheers,” Jaime says, and clinks their glasses together one last time.

— —

The next bar is the same kind of, so they skip it.

The one _after_ , though, seems interesting. Or better: there’s a _lot_ of noise coming from inside it, and it doesn’t look too classy. Jaime says they can give it a go, and then they walk straight into a Disneyland-induced nightmare.

“The hell is this?” He asks to the woman on the right side of the entrance as he notices that three quarters of the place are filled with people dressed up like they’re all out of a different Disney movie. Fine, it’s Vegas, he shouldn’t be _surprised_ , but when you spot a Snow White, a Cinderella, an Ariel and a Rapunzel in the span of ten seconds, it _kind_ of takes you aback. Especially when there’s Elvis playing in the background.

The woman, who has short hair, dark eyes, pale skin and who looks entirely at ease in her bouncer uniform and tie, shrugs. “You don’t know? There’s a wedding chapel near here.”

“A _wedding chapel_.”

“Yeah.” The woman has a remarkable British accent, he notices, but doesn’t ask what the fuck she’s doing bouncing in a bar on the Strip. “Anyway, they do themed weddings. You can have Elvis, James Bond, Clint Eastwood or whatever the fuck else. This one happy couple had the _Fairytale_ wedding which means they got free costumes until tomorrow evening, then they have to return them. Except that the two blokes who got married ran off to their hotel an hour ago and it’s just their friends partying now. You can go in, though, there’s space.”

“Thanks,” Jaime says, tipping her twenty dollars.

“Anytime!” She calls behind him, sounding very pleased. Of course she would.

Then they drop at the bar. Bronn asks for a gin, Jaime for another whiskey, and then they turn and scan the rest of the crowd.

“Right,” he says, “Cinderella’s so _not_ my type it’s not even funny.”

“Not to be a downer,” Bronn says, “but if right now you don’t want anyone with your sister’s aesthetic, you’re dead out of place. Shit, look at that Maleficent.”

Jaime does and drinks half of that glass. “Yeah, no. Well, the drinks are good and the music isn’t shitty. I’ll drink to that.” He turns back to the counter and sighs, suddenly feeling like shit at once — damn. That picture about killed his good mood, but how was it _not_ going to happen? Cersei looked radiant and _happy_ and she was looking at Rhaegar in a way Jaime is fairly sure she never looked at _him_ even if he wishes it was the contrary, and now she gets the marriage of her dreams and the company merger while he’s going to be stuck in PA — which he _hates_ — with her, feeling like a total failure because he could never conceive wanting anyone else in his life and he can’t even _imagine_ how it would feel to live without her with him always, and something tells him it’s _not_ healthy at all that he’s thinking that, but —

He sighs and asks for another drink, feeling his eyes burn just at the _thought_ of what she told him before, at how she’d always tell him that they were the same person and they couldn’t have nothing but each other and of course she knew, she had always known, how could he even doubt her, and then she went and said that he was a right idiot if he thought they could really be a thing forever —

“Hey,” a definitely feminine voice says from his side, even if he hadn’t noticed any woman sitting next to him, “I guess it’s not my business, but — are you all right?”

He turns, looking at whoever that is.

Oh.

Of course he didn’t notice.

Because there’s a woman sitting next to him, indeed, but other than being slightly taller than he is while not standing, having shoulders wider than his own and a fairly thick neck, she’s also… well. Not wearing a _dress_. It’s — okay, some incredibly tacky golden armor thing that’s not even metal, with brown trousers underneath and a turquoise cape that _does_ compliment her eyes indeed — they’re incredibly pretty, he thinks. A clear, pure shade of blue that’s staring at him kind of worriedly. And fine, the rest of her face is homely in the best definition — she has large freckles all over her cheeks, straight blonde hair more straw-like than Cersei’s gold, full, dark lips, and her nose has been broken more than once from the looks of it.

Still.

She seems concerned.

And he feels like he _should_ place that costume.

“Not really,” he admits, “but thanks for noticing. About two people have up to now and one is there.”

“Hi,” Bronn says, waving at her, “I’m the friend with the masochist streak.”

“Hey, you’re here on my dime and you’re having free drinks, _you_ say masochist,” Jaime snorts. “Anyway, wait. You’re with the wedding party the bouncer was mentioning before?”

“Yeah,” she says, her face suddenly going redder. “But, like, I’m friends with both grooms, but not with many of _their_ friends, so now that they’re gone, well.”

“Right, you were on your lonesome getting drinks. Can’t say I don’t relate. But wait, I need to figure out where the hell are you from.”

“… Edinburgh,” she cautiously says.

“Oh, so _that_ was the accent,” he says, glad to have placed it. “Woah, seems like it’s the British invading this country all over again this evening. No, I meant which blasted Disney classic are you from.”

“I could tell you,” she offers.

“But it’s still familiar, I — oh, _fuck_ ,” he says, suddenly realizing it and wondering how he could have missed it when Tyrion used to watch _that_ damned movie every other time when their father wasn’t home to scold him for it. “I guess your name isn’t Phoebus, is it?”

“No,” she says, sounding amused, “but it was the only costume they had that actually, like, fit me, and it was my favorite movie back in the day, so.”

“Hey,” he goes on, “why not? You have the shoulders for it, you’re blonde, _he_ ’s blonde, score for you. Definitely less tacky than the Belle that just passed by.”

For a moment, the woman’s eyes go slightly wider, as if she can’t believe he just said she looks better in that outfit than the girl with caramel-colored eyes and brown hair falling down on her back in waves, in the yellow, flowy dress, that just passed by. Then she clears her throat.

“Thanks,” she says, sounding cautious but pleasantly surprised. “And I imagine nothing could help you feel better? Because sorry if it’s not my business, but you really look like shit.”

Huh. She’s not letting it go, is she?

Jaime smiles. “You know what,” he says, “I don’t think _much_ could help me feel better, but you were nice enough to ask. So, how about the next three drinks are on me if you tell me your name?”

He doesn’t even know if he expects her to answer. Honestly, he just wanted to chat a bit and he’d really just offer her a drink because she gave a shit and he can afford it.

He looks up at her.

She parts her lips.

“Brienne,” she finally answers. “And _you_ would be?”

Oh. She actually _hasn’t recognized him yet_?

He grins back.

“Jaime,” he replies. “I’m Jaime.”

 

 

_Twenty minutes before_

 

 

 _This_ , Brienne thinks, _has been the worst idea Loras and Renly ever had_.

She does understand that Renly wanted to give Loras the wedding of their dreams.

She _does_ understand that he was willing to spend all the necessary money on it.

What she doesn’t get is that they had to fly to fucking _Las Vegas_ for it. Couldn’t they have their _fairytale wedding_ in the woods in Cornwall or something like that?

Okay, she supposes, the woods in Cornwall wouldn’t have granted Loras entering the chapel _on a coach that looked like Cinderella’s_ , with footmen.

And probably it wouldn’t have included the _eighteen roses bouquet_ (given Brienne’s distaste for those flowers since she was given some by that asshole Ronnet Connington who, in high school, invited her to prom and then dumped her just before the dance started in front of everyone, _that_ was not her favorite part of the whole shebang), the photo session in the _white gazebo_ , the fairytale wedding scroll, Renly and Loras’s names in lights on the chapel’s marquee and the optional paid costumes for _all the fucking one hundred guests_.

And the ridiculous thing is that the entire shebang cost about two thousand dollars, which given the quality of her costume is about fair, but they spent _ten_ times that to fly all the guests to fucking Las Vegas from London.

Ah, and that wasn’t including the fairy-tale themed wedding cake. Christ. Brienne doesn’t want to think that she’s here being a bitter arse just because _she_ is never most likely getting married at _any_ point ever, not even the regular courthouse deal without all of this circus, but she has a feeling that this entire thing has been so beyond the realm of _excessive_ that no one can blame her for wanting to get royally wasted.

Which is going to be a problem, since thanks to her damned size _and_ good genetics, it takes her a _lot_ to get tipsy, never mind royally wasted.

The fact that at least she could wear a costume belonging to a character she actually did like and that doesn’t make her look more ridiculous than about _anyone else_ helps, but honestly? What the fuck. She scrolls down her Facebook feed, sighing at seeing that the chapel’s social media manager _did_ tag her in the wedding pictures.

She figures that at least no one will pay attention to her when Loras is wearing a damned green princess dress.

So: she wants to get royally drunk and at least Renly and Loras swore they’d cover the tab in the morning and they _do_ have the money for it, in between the two of them, and therefore she fucking _will_.

She gets a whiskey on the rocks and starts sipping at it when someone sits next to her with a groan as _Suspicious Minds_ turns into _Heartbreak Hotel_ — at least the music is good. She turns and glances at him, but she can only see the back of his head because he’s confabulating with the other friend who came in with him, and they’re apparently rating some of the girls in the wedding party. Half of them are Margaery’s friends, Brienne can’t even remember the names, and while she doesn’t get most of the conversation, she’s kind of surprised to hear them say that none of them are to their taste or something. Which is weird. All of Margaery’s friends look like her, they _should_ find someone they like. They turn towards the counter a moment later, she can hear it, and after the guy next to her orders a piña colada, she notices that he sounds… really down.

She dares turning at her left again.

 _Well_.

Certainly he’s a sight for sore eyes — tall, definitely muscled under his red shirt, golden blonde hair that curls neatly behind his neck, a profile that seems out of a Greek statue, mouth with soft lips that look not too thin and not too plump, a beard that hasn’t been _cured_ for a good five days or so but that definitely looks good on him, and the lone green eye she sees would be a lovely shade of emerald if he didn’t look completely miserable and he didn’t _sound_ completely miserable.

Now: Brienne doesn’t usually talk to strangers. _But_ , the guy really does look like shit, and it’s not like he can think much worse of her than of anyone in the room, and anyway, if he tells her to fuck off, it’s a large bar and she can go get drunk at the other end of the corner, and she hates being near people who obviously look like _that_ without even asking them if they need help.

“Hey,” she asks, clearing her throat, “I guess it’s not my business, but — are you all right?”

The guy turns to his side, squinting at her.

The only confirmation she gets from it is that he’s _even fucking hotter_ if you look at his entire, perfect symmetrical, squared face rather than just at the profile. She just hopes that he doesn’t just laugh at her like most other people would do, at least according to her frankly abysmal experience.

He doesn’t. Instead, he squints at her for a long, long moment. Then —

“Not really,” he sighs, “but thanks for noticing. About two people have up to now and one is there.”

“Hi, I’m the friend with the masochist streak.” Brienne looks behind Hot Guy’s shoulder and sees the friend waving at her — the friend looks a bit older than Hot Guy and definitely has more lines on his face, but he also looks in way better spirits. Brienne figures _he_ isn’t in dire need to get drunk.

“Hey, you’re here on my dime and you’re having free drinks, _you_ say masochist,” Hot Guy tells him, thought without much bite. “Anyway, wait. You’re with the wedding party the bouncer was mentioning before?”

“Yeah,” she answers, knowing that she’s blushing ripe-tomato red, but she figures it would be useless to deny it. “But, like, I’m friends with both grooms, but not with many of _their_ friends, so now that they’re gone, well.”

“Right, you were on your lonesome getting drinks. Can’t say I don’t relate. But wait, I need to figure out where the hell are you from.”

Wait, what? He probably heard the accent. Well, he also has a British one, she thinks he has to be from London or somewhere posh, from the way he sounds, so maybe he’s curious.

“… Edinburgh,” she tells him.

“Oh, so _that_ was the accent,” he grins, looking very pleased with himself. “Woah, seems like it’s the British invading this country all over again this evening.” She kind of wants to laugh at that, it _was_ funny, but she doesn’t. Better to not show too much confidence. "No, I meant which blasted Disney classic are you from.”

“I could tell you,” she tells him, kind of not believing they’re actually talking and he seems to be fairly serious about it. Right, he’s also half-tipsy, but _still_.

“But it’s still familiar, I — oh, _fuck_ ,” he says, his eyes going wide as he obviously realizes it. “I guess your name isn’t Phoebus, is it?”

“No,” she says, not bothering to hide that she finds his enthusiasm at having figured it out fairly touching, “but it was the only costume in that chapel that actually, like, fit me, and it was my favorite movie back in the day, so.”

“Hey,” he says, “why not? You have the shoulders for it, you’re blonde, _he_ ’s blonde, score for you. Definitely less tacky than the Belle that just passed by.”

Wait.

 _Margaery_ is the only Belle around.

Did he just say _she_ looks better than _Margaery_ or that she wears her costume better when Margaery was _born_ for hers and when — people don’t even look at her, if Margaery is around?

Did he actually _mean_ it?

Well. From the way he’s looking at her, she thinks he is. Shit. Wow. She has no idea of how to take it, except that… on one side… she _does_ like it, deep down.

“Thanks,” she answers, hoping that she won’t sound embarrassed as she goes back to the main topic. Because he still looks terrible.. “And I imagine nothing could help you feel better? Because sorry if it’s not my business, but you really look like shit.”

He squints at her again, but then he smiles a grin of pearly white teeth that would be the pride of any dentist’s advertisement.

“You know what,” he says, “I don’t think _much_ could help me feel better, but you were nice enough to ask. So, how about the next three drinks are on me if you tell me your name?”

For a moment, she can’t make sense of it.

Did he just ask if he can buy her drinks _if she tells him her name_ , with a sort of flirty tone to it, and — she honestly can’t believe that _this_ guy is somehow hitting on her, except that… if he’s not then he’s being friendly _and_ offering her alcohol, which means that she can drink on _two_ different free tabs.

Well, now that’d be downright idiotic if she said no when her entire plan tonight was drinking until she passed out and forgot about how much she hates her life?

“Brienne,” she answers. “And _you_ would be?”

He grins back, looking… pleasantly surprised?

“Jaime,” he replies. “I’m Jaime.”

Huh. Sounds nice, she decided.

“Nice to meet you,” she says. “So, are you buying me something to drink my sorrows?”

“What, you _also_ are in dire need of doing that? Sure thing. Sharing is caring,” he says, and calls the bartender.

Brienne decides that maybe this evening _won’t_ be as shitty as it could have been, after all.

— —

Half an hour later, they’re halfway through a bourbon bottle and she’s _not_ feeling like she has to keep her guard up as much. Fine, she also has started _feeling_ that alcohol, but he’s the kind of person who likes to talk a lot and while his sense of humor is most likely abysmal according to most standards, it’s… the _fun_ kind of abysmal. And it’s not at _her_ expense at least — for that matter, he’s done at _his_ expense, at his friend’s, at the taste of anyone who came up with that fairytale wedding package, not that she can’t disagree because it _is_ tacky, but _not_ at her. Not even once. And maybe she’s let him vent as she drank, but whenever she _did_ say something he didn’t seem to not take her seriously.

Shit. Does she _like_ him? She doesn’t know. Sure as hell, she knows she’s down with finishing that bottle and maybe opening another.

When he asks her, she says yes.

— —

“So,” he asks one quarter into the new one, “why would you be drinking away _sorrows_ at a wedding?”

She shrugs, taking a sip from her glass. “’S just,” she says, “I love them and they’ve been my friends for years and I’m happy for them enough that I actually, like, _came here_ and put on this thing, but then I think that it’s not like there’s a line of people willing to do it with _me_. Okay, wait, I don’t want the fucking fairytale wedding with the _footmen_ , like, _no_ , but — guess I’m jealous. Not that it’s _nice_ to say it.”

“Hey,” he says, “you’ve listened to me rant for this long, you’ve actually noticed I’m feeling like shit and you went all the way here because they’re your friends, you seem fairly nice to me. Nicer than _I_ am anyway. You’re allowed a few nasty feelings.”

He tops up her glass. She clinks it against his.

“You don’t seem that bad to me,” she blurts. “I mean, how long have we been talking? One hour?”

“More or less,” he confirms.

“Well. You’re —” She stops, drinks some more, licks her lips. “I mean, you haven’t reminded me of all the reasons why I’m not in a princess costume and — most guys who don’t know me, they wouldn’t last twenty minutes before making me notice.”

He squints at her, his mouth twisting in a frown. “Just for science, but do you have an asshole magnet around you or what?”

She almost spits the drink. “Do I have a _what_?”

“An asshole magnet or somethin’. I mean, anyone who’d do that is an arse. Fine, _I_ am one, but I’m not _that_ kind of. Anyway, your _prince_ costume doesn’t look half bad _on you_ , even if it looks fucking terrible _in itself_.”

“Point taken,” she sighs, drinking her fill. “Actually — you know what. It’s hot. I’ve got a shirt underneath. You mind helping me get the armor out?”

She doesn’t even know _how_ she found it in herself to ask a guy to put her hands somewhere near her chest.

Jaime, though, merely grins, swallows the rest of his drink and turns towards her.

“Sure thing,” he says. “Never said I can’t be a gentleman if I want to.”

Then she raises her arms and turns to the side so he can reach for the clasps on the side of the armor.

Maybe she’ll manage to breathe without feeling all the blood rush to her face after she’s out of the fucking thing.

 

 

***

 

 

So: Jaime hadn’t exactly predicted that he’d end up helping Brienne out of the horrid golden armor when he offered her that drink, but especially after what she’s just said, he’s flattered she’d ask, and so he does. It’s not that hard after all — two clasps on each side and it’s over. She lets it fall on the ground with a breath of relief —

And then he stops dead in his tracks, hand mid-air as he grabs the bourbon again, because underneath that armor, she had that white long shirt Phoebus wore in the second half of the movie, which is obviously half-soaked in sweat because it _was_ hot, and it has a a slight V-neck that shows a bit of pale, freckled skin, and somehow it’s sticking to her chest, which means that he can see the exact shape of her breasts if he stares enough.

Fine. They’re small, nothing to say, and he could fit them into one hand, most likely, but with _that_ shirt and the fact that the outfit now _really_ looks good on her — the masculine cut is good on her, obviously, but white, turquoise and blonde makes a really nice match, and she _does_ look the part, well, he can’t help thinking, _she’s definitely something_.

Wait.

Is he attracted to her?

 _Maybe_ , he reasons, but then again… she couldn’t be more different from his sister, for that matter, and it’s _not_ negative at all. He wasn’t looking for —

Wait a fucking —

Oh, _shit._

After all, he realizes in a moment of clarity that he’s not so sure he likes, the entire point was that he and supposed were supposed to be _the same person_ , but — evidently she didn’t need _that_ so much, did she, and _something_ makes him realize that he never looked at anyone else because he had _her_ , sure, but if he just never looked at anyone else because he never questioned what she had to say about their relationship then maybe —

Maybe Brienne over here is actually _his_ type and he just never knew he’s apparently into tall women with large shoulders and clear, large blue eyes because he never let himself _look_?

Fuck.

“Hey,” she asks him, “you kind of blanched. Are you all right?”

She sounds so concerned, his throat closes up on itself.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I just — I thought about something that I didn’t realize before. Never mind. So, how about we try out the vodka?”

“Fuck, I’m _so_ game for it,” she agrees.

Jaime gets a whole bottle of the best Russian they have.

Then he tops her glass generously.

 

_Two hours later_

 

By the time the clock reads ten PM, Jaime is the _best_ kind of smashed.

“So,” Brienne says, her half-empty margarita glass still in her hand, those blue eyes of hers looking very, _very_ lively, “this prick who in primary school decided that it would be _fun_ to, uh, ask me in public if I had a crush on him and inform me he’d never even dream of looking at me twice, ends up in the opposite team at the fencing secondary school tournaments. Well, it was one on one, but you get me.”

“I hope you took your revenge,” he says before downing his own vodka shot.

“He didn’t score once when he was against me,” she grins, almost shyly, and man, she _does_ have a lovely smile when she lets herself go for it. “He was eliminated at the first round.”

“And how did _you_ fare?”

“I won,” she shrugs. “I was thinking of taking it back up at some point, but y’know, I got my degree, found the office job so I could leave home already and that doesn’t leave too much time for professional fencing. But hey, we’ve got to pay the bills.”

Not a thing Jaime ever had to worry about.

Even if given the fucking mess of a family he comes from, he wishes he did, at times.

“’S a pity tho. I always liked fencing,” he sighs. “I wanted to go for it, but eh. The father thought horse riding was more dignified.”

“Ugh,” Brienne says, “I _hate_ it whenever I hear people thinking they know better than their kids when they have to pick their own damned hobbies. So what if something else is _more dignified_? It’s sports, not the end of the world.”

“Well, just based on _that_ sentence, I can one hundred per cent assure you that you’d be a better parent than my fucking father, and my mother died when I was seven. She was _way_ better than him, admittedly, but never mind that.”

She laughs, then downs the last shot of margarita. “That would be assuming that anyone would have kids with _me_ , but thanks for that. I mean, you’re already assuming that I actually would get to do that, it’s sweet.”

He doesn’t like the self-deprecating tone.

Mostly, because she’s reminding him of _himself_ three days ago and — somehow he has a feeling that it’s not how _she_ should be sounding.

“Fuck all,” he says, ordering her another margarita, “what does it mean that you should _get to do that_? People can do whatever the fuck they want in life. If you want them, you should have them and honestly, we’ve been here what, two hours, _three_ , whatever, and as far as I’m concerned any guy should be lucky to end up with you.”

She goes so red in the face, it would be _almost_ hilarious.

Almost.

“Are you serious?” She asks, her voice shaking slightly.

“Deadly. Fuck’s sake, let’s just say where I come from the number of genuinely nice people surrounding you is inversely proportional to the amount of money people have, and let’s just say that the reason I’m here drinking my heart out is someone who’s admittedly fucking terrible except that I didn’t realize it until now, and I want to vomit just at putting two and two together, so _what the fuck_ , right?”

Brienne puts her glass down, staring at him with a certain intensity to that blue of her eyes that makes him hold his breath for a moment.

She looks about to say something.

Then Jaime’s phone rings.

It was on the counter, and he can see Cersei’s face staring at him from the screen.

Fucking obvious.

“Hell,” he says, “meet my fucking sister,” he sighs. He also had some _fifty_ missed calls. He answers. “Cersei.” He tries to sound as detached as possible. He’s kind of failing. “Fancy hearing from you. Has your engagement gone well?”

“Splendidly,” she says, “except that _I invited you_.”

“Never told you I was going to attend,” he says. She’s shouting so much, he’s fairly sure everyone is hearing her even if he doesn’t have her on speaker. “And you should guess that I have no reason to.”

“That’s not the _point_! It’s a company thing, too, and you should be here, not — not —”

“See, you don’t even know _where I am_ ,” he says, “but never mind that, it’s not important if it concerns _me_ and not you.”

“And where are you, just so you share with the class?”

He sighs. “In Las Vegas.”

“ _Excuse me_?”

“In Las Vegas. With Bronn.”

“Oh, of course you’re with _Bronn_ , I couldn’t have expected different from —”

“Stop right there,” Jaime interrupts her. “You want to be an arse to _me_ , whatever, but leave out of this people who actually, I mean, at least give half of a shit.”

“ _Bronn_ just wants to drink on your money,” she says.

“Even if it was the case, _he_ is here and you’re not, so you’re making a very bad case here.”

“Well, I’m expecting you to come back —”

“Forget it.”

“ _What_?”

“Cersei. _You_ ended it,” he says, hoping that it doesn’t sound as damning as it actually is. “I can’t do this. I can’t fucking do this. I’m not at your fucking service and if I ever thought I was, fuck me for not seeing it before. I’m going to come back when I want to and when I feel like it, you can handle your engagement bullshit on your own and I’m not interested in whatever it is you have to say.”

“Jaime, you’re drunk and you obviously aren’t thinking straight, and it’s not like it’s any news —”

“Can I have that phone?” Brienne asks.

“What?” Jaime asks her, forgetting it for a moment.

“I heard the entire thing. Can I have it? I’m not saying put her on speaker, but if you want to…”

He doubts they’d hear shit, given that there’s _Hound Dog_ playing in the background, but you can never know and he really doesn’t relish having the entire bar hearing it.

“Hey,” he tells Cersei, “the new friend I’ve been drinking with wants to talk to you,” he says, and hands Brienne the phone.

She takes it.

“Hello?” Brienne asks.

“And _who_ are you?” Cersei shouts again, hard enough that you can hear her even without putting her on speaker, except that Brienne doesn’t even flinch.

“Someone who’s known your brother for what, three hours? Yeah, three, whatever, and honestly, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

At _that_ , Jaime can feel Bronn going still as a statue next to him. He knows he’s doing the exact same. _Did she actually_ —?

“What did you just ask?” Cersei shrieks in her phone. “It’s not your business, miss _whoever —_ ”

“I just asked what the fuck is wrong with you,” Brienne says calmly again. “Because other than having bought me some pretty sweet booze, he’s actually been a pretty nice person until now even if he’s obviously miserable — ‘cause of _you_ I guess —, he’s only had rather amusing things to say, he’s pretty good company and he’s obviously in need of having a nice time, and he thinks straighter than most guys I run into at any given time. And where I come from, talking to people in your frankly condescending way as if they’re right twats and you know better than them and they should do whatever you want is really fucking not okay, so how about you stop telling people what to do and let them enjoy their evening?”

“You don’t _know_ anything,” Cersei shoots back. Jaime wonders how Brienne hasn’t ruptured an eardrum yet. “You can’t presume to —”

“I presume that your brother is, as far as I’ve seen, the kind of guy I wish I ran into more, while as far as I’ve heard, you’re a proper tosser, so how about you let him live? Thanks, I’ve said everything I had to,” she finishes, and then closes the call in Cersei’s face and hands Jaime the phone back.

Also, a moment later her face goes red all over again.

“Uh,” she says, “I hope I haven’t… overstepped? I mean, I didn’t think, but I could hear, and you didn’t deserve to hear any of that crap, not when you’re the only guy I’ve talked to in years that wasn’t, like, related or tied to the two friends who got married who actually didn’t make me feel awkward as fuck when being around him or saw fit to inform me of how unattractive I am.” Fuck. She looks embarrassed as _fuck_ , but she’s still holding his stare, and for a moment Jaime thinks, _screw that, it was me who lucked out tonight_.

“Please,” he says, “it’s not as if you haven’t been the one person bar _him_ and my brother that I’ve met lately who actually made me feel good while talking to them.”

“For — for real? People don’t take me for this great conversationalist, usually,” she says, as if she can’t believe it —

“For real,” he says, feeling his mouth curl into a half-grin. “For that matter, we’ve talked for what, three hours, and I’m pretty sure I’ve got more in common with _you_ than her.” He nods at her phone. “I mean, I suppose you guessed. And you haven’t ran yet.”

“I — I might,” she admits. “And well, it sounds — freaky, I’ll admit it, but after listening to her I can only imagine why you’re _here_. I don’t go judging people when I don’t know the entire situation. Why?”

He stares at her, for a long, long moment, her lovely eyes staring into his, and he thinks, _I kind of want to kiss her_ , and she’d probably say yes given how she’s looking at him and what she’s just said —

Except that —

Wait.

They’re in _Vegas_ , aren’t they?

As in, the one place in the entire Western hemisphere where he could actually —

“You know what,” he says, “I’ve got a proposal for you.”

“… As in?”

“Marry me,” he says, and for some kind of miracle she doesn’t laugh in her face. Bronn spits his alcohol on the counter, though, but Jaime is too busy caring about her reaction to it.

“Wait,” she answers, “are you serious?”

“I’m _deadly_ serious,” he replies. “I mean, honestly, we get each other, I’ve had more fun in the last three hours than in the last ten years or so, you apparently don’t hate me either, I think I _really_ like you, as — juvenile as it sounds, I guess, and it’s not like most people I know actually, like, give a shit about my opinion or anything or —”

“Wait,” she says, “you _really like me_?”

“Why the hell wouldn’t I?”

She motions at — herself, he figures.

He shrugs and moves closer.

“Listen, I could make you a very long list of reasons why I _would_ really like you, and I can assure you that since we met I’ve thought more than once that your eyes are outrageously pretty and your ass is a gift from whichever divinity exists if they do, and if not it’s a miracle of science, and I’ve also tried to not stare at your chest too much because I’m really _not_ wanting you to assume I’m that kind of creep —”

“Men _don’t_ stare at my chest,” she replies feebly.

“Too bad,” he says, “they’re missing out. What I meant, anyway, is that — I mean, I’ve — I don’t think I’ve ever ran into anyone I got along with so well at once, and I tend to go with my gut, and you _did_ want to get married or so you said, so it has to be destiny, doesn’t it?”

She keeps on staring at him. “I — that _does_ make sense, but — I mean, it seems too good —”

“Hey, I’ll make you a deal. Since it’s all fairytale themed and shit, let’s say that we make the ultimate test.”

“… As in?”

“I’m kissing you now. If it’s terrible, we can just forget it. If it’s _good_ , well, proof we’re meant to be. How about it?”

She stares at him for another five, long seconds —

Then she leans down and kisses him first.

And _fuck_. Her mouth is hot and wet and she’s kissing him with _urgency_ and as if she really wants it, and he kisses back at once, his tongue slipping inside her mouth and feeling like they’re slotting together so perfectly, he wonders _how_ kissing Cersei ever felt like the natural state of things when Brienne’s mouth is soft and warm and her hand is grasping the back of his head gently and her fingers are rough but in the _good_ way, and — yeah. They part to breathe and leans in again, and _again_ , and if this was a test, well, he knows the answer now.

When they part for good, he’s literally without breath and she’s looking at him like it’s her birthday and Christmas come together.

“So,” he says, “Brienne, will you marry me?”

She smiles. Fully. Hard enough it brightens her entire face. “What if I want to?” She says.

He grins back.

“Bronn!” He shouts. “I’m marrying her before dawn. I need help here.”

“No need to shout,” Bronn says, “I’m right the fuck here.”

Then he grabs his own phone.

Jaime drags Brienne closer so they can both look.

Oh, he _is_ fucking doing this, he decides as her fingers tentatively tangle with his.

 

 

***

 

 

Let’s have it out of the way _now_ : Bronn hadn’t really anticipated any of _this_ when he proposed going to Vegas.

His reasoning had been fairly straightforward. Jaime needed to not think about that piece of work that his sister is, and has endless money to spend, _therefore_ a week in Las Vegas would absolutely do the trick and if _he_ got the free ticket to come with, even better.

Except that now the crazy cunt is actually _bent_ on doing this marriage thing.

Properly.

“Okay,” Bronn tells him as he checks the most important thing, as in, how to get the bloody _marriage license_ , “you’re apparently in your rotten luck today, because it’s eleven PM and the marriage license bureau is open until midnight _and_ you can get a license in fifteen minutes tops if there isn’t a line. Which I think won’t be the fucking case since it’s Tuesday. _Now_ , you need an ID, which I sure as fuck hope you both have with.”

“I do,” Brienne says, sounding still awed.

“Yeah, got that,” Jaime says. “So, what else we need?”

“Seventy-seven bucks in cash to pay at the bureau, then you need rings and two witnesses and to book the venue. Which you can do online anyway.”

“Yeah, no problem, got that,” Jaime says, calling the bartender and telling him to bring over the bill, he has to go get married and pay up the bill.

“Sure you got _that_ ,” Bronn says. “Well, I can be your witness, you need another one.”

“Dunno,” Jaime answers, “maybe we should have a couple of people coming other than _you_.”

“And what are you gonna do, invite the first three people you see?”

“Please _not_ anyone who came to _that other_ wedding,” Brienne groans.

“Hey, who the hell you take me for?” He asks. “‘Course I wouldn’t. Okay. Wait. Bronn, call me a taxi.” He pays for the drinks, then starts staring around in the room and zooms on one guy in the corner — he’s _tall_ , Bronn notices, with long black hair, a leather jacket and the entire left side of his face that looks completely fucking _burned_. He also exudes vibes of _leave me the hell alone_.

So of course Jaime stands up and goes next to the guy.

“Hey,” he says.

“The hell do you want? Do I know you?” Scarred Guy asks.

“No,” Jaime says, “but I’m getting married in two hours at most and I don’t have a witness, and you don’t look busy.”

“… You want _me_ to be your witness.”

“Why not? I see nothing wrong with you unless you don’t have an ID.”

Bronn doesn’t know if he should laugh, cry, facepalm or inform Tyrion that his brother his being his usual self — as in, he’s acting out of pure instinct but since his instincts are mostly decent, it’s not a necessarily bad thing.

“… And who’s the bride?” Scarred Guy asks.

Jaime moves so he can see Brienne, who’s still sitting at her place.

She waves tentatively. Scarred Guy’s eyes narrow as he looks back at Jaime.

“You aren’t making fun of her, are you?”

“No,” Jaime says, sounding outraged. “I wouldn’t _marry_ people to make fun of them.”

Scarred Guy seems to consider it. Then he downs his whiskey glass and slams it on the counter. “Fuck all, I had no plans for tonight and this sounds fucking entertaining. Right, I’ll be your bloody witness.”

“Great! And what’s your name?”

“Sandor Clegane,” the guy says dryly, standing up.

“Excellent. Bronn, we’re getting a taxi to the courthouse, like, _now_.”

“Wait a bloody moment,” Bronn says, checking the map on his phone. “Come on, it’s a fifteen minute walk. No need to find a taxi.”

“And what if there’s a line?” Jaime protests. “Actually, you know what, let’s capitalize.”

“ _Capitalize_?” Clegane asks.

“Me and the _bride_ are taking a taxi to the bureau. _You_ and — _Sandor_ here can find us a couple rings, I trust your taste.” Then he shoves Bronn half of the cash he had in his wallet — it’s some five hundred bucks total. “Then you’re meeting us at the bureau and we can find a courthouse or whatever, how about _that_?”

“… Right,” Bronn says, not even asking him if he’s serious because _of course he is_. “I guess —”

“Amazing. Okay, fine, Brienne?”

“Yeah?”

“We’re going to the bureau. Fuck the armor, I’ll pay them back. Oh, hey!” He’s talking to the bouncer now, who is obviously leaving because she’s at the end of her shift, same as a redhead waitress going out with her.

“Yeah? You’ve got a problem?” She asks.

“No, all the contrary. _But_ , I need someone to attend my wedding _and_ to help them buy the rings.” He nods towards Bronn and Clegane, who has moved next to him and looks mildly amused but also as if he’s wondering what the fuck he’s going on. “So, you wanna attend?”

“Seriously? You don’t even know us,” the redhead says.

“Who cares? Your colleague here was okay when we came in. Also, I tip well, don’t I?”

“He’s right,” the bouncer says. “And you know what? Sounds fun and I’m always up to help sisters in need of a wedding audience. Okay, I’m in. It’s Asha, by the way.”

“Jaime, _excellent_. And you are?”

“Ygritte,” the redhead says. “Oh, fuck that, I had no plans for the night. I’m in, too. Are _they_ going to buy the rings?”

“Hey, I have taste,” Clegane protests.

“Whatever. See you four at the courthouse then!” Jaime says, then grabs Brienne’s hand and drags her out of the bar.

Bronn is nowhere near sure about what the fuck is going on.

Then he clears his throat and looks at the girls. “Well,” he says, “you two _work_ here. Any place where we can get them rings?”

They look at each other, exchange a few options but then conclude that they’re all closed at this time.

“Huh,” Asha says, “well, there’s the pawn shop on the South Las Vegas Boulevard. That one on the TV show.”

Clegane shrugs. “Well, sounds fine enough on short notice. Is it on the way to the bureau?”

“Yeah,” Ygritte confirms.

“Well then,” Bronn says, “let’s go already. We’ve got a wedding to organize — wait a fucking moment,” he says, suddenly registering what they just said. “The one _on the TV show_?”

“Yeah,” Asha says, “it’s that big one where they shoot that reality. _Pawn Stars_ or something like that? Dunno, it’s trashy as hell —”

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?” Bronn asks, suddenly deciding that this entire ordeal has became _way_ more interesting.

“No,” Asha replies, “but why?”

“I watch that show every damned time it’s up with Jaime’s brother, _that’s why_ ,” Bronn says, grinning. “Fuck, I can’t believe I’m buying _his_ damned rings over there.”

“Wait,” Sandor says, “is it that show where only the old guy who hates Facebook says sensed stuff? And we’re going _there_? Fuck, I need a drink.”

“We are, and that show is _amazing_ , and I’m not hearing any other opinion. Come on, let’s get there already,” he urges, pushing everyone else out of the door. Fine, he doubts he’s gonna meet any of the Harrisons while he’s there, too bad because Tyrion would go green with envy (he pretends he hates that show but he fucking loves it, too, or he wouldn’t binge it with Bronn every other week), but if he thinks he’s going to get Jaime’s bloody ring at _that_ place —

Maybe there is an upside in this mess of a wedding drama.

— —

When they get to the pawn shop, all four of them go inside. Bronn grins as he recognizes it from the show— the lights are on, he can see the night personnel behind the counters and he’s about to go ask the first one he sees, except that —

“This is the _best_ idea I ever had,” he proclaims as he stares at the first counter.

“What?” Sandor asks, not sounding too convinced.

“The guy behind the first counter, that’s Big Hoss!”

“Wait, the first nephew? Right, I haven’t seen that show in a while.”

“Too bad, you should catch up. Never mind that, I’m damn well going to buy those rings here,” Bronn proclaims, and walks immediately to the counter.

“Hey,” he says, “first thing, I just wanna say, big fan of the show, seen it all, can’t wait for the new season to start.”

“Well, thank you,” the other man replies, obviously looking pleased that Bronn is this enthusiastic about visiting the place. “And the second thing would be?”

“Oh,” Bronn says, “I’ve got a friend who’s getting married within dawn. Wasn’t planned. You think you’ve got rings to show me? Don’t worry about the price.”

“Just you wait.” He disappears behind a door and then comes back with a _large_ selection of rings. Technically, if he went with the lower price range, he _would_ be within his five hundred bucks for both, _but_ they are… regular rings. He feels like he has to go all out on this.

Then he’s shown the _higher_ price range and he’s already smirking as Clegane moves up next to him.

“I sure as fuck,” he says, “hope you don’t want to get _her_ the one with the fucking heart amethyst.”

“Actually,” Bronn says, eyeing the batch, “I was thinking _that_ for Jaime and the one with sapphires and diamonds for _her_. Why, not good enough for you?”

“Listen,” Clegane says, “I don’t know either of you but I’ve _seen_ that girl and she looked so fucking happy at the prospect of marrying your guy, I’m _not_ letting you buy her a mock ring. And she doesn’t look like the type who appreciate _hearts_.”

“Chill,” Bronn says, “the sapphires will work and _Jaime_ deserves the mock ring, not her. Hm, right, listen, I’ve got five hundred in cash _but_ I have a friend who could totally buy these online and then you could give them to me. Would that be all right with you?”

“Sure. There’s free shipping in the US and _you_ would be the one we’d deliver to, right?”

“Grand,” Bronn says. “Just let me call him.”

He grabs the phone and dials Tyrion’s number as quick as possible. He checks the rings’ sizes first, but he _thinks_ they should work.

“Hey,” he says as soon as Tyrion picks up, “sorry for the hour, but you might wanna know what happened _and_ I also need your help, like, stat.”

“Yeah,” Tyrion says, sounding fairly perplexed, “ _please_ give me some updates here because Cersei has been screeching about Jaime being in Vegas with some kind of whore for the last hour or so but no one has really got the details. The fuck?”

Bronn tries to not laugh his ass off. “Nah, that wasn’t a whore. She was this girl your brother chatted up at a bar. They got pleasurably drunk together, they liked each other, she apparently couldn’t stand Cersei treating him like shit on the phone and told her off, and now they’re getting married.”

“Interesting, now — wait, _what_?”

“He’s marrying her.”

“He’s _marrying —_ you’re shitting me.”

“I’m _not_. They’re getting the marriage license, and _this_ is where you can play your part in the wedding present.”

“I’m… listening. And frankly I’m also scared as fuck.”

“No, listen, the only place around here that was open was _Silver and Gold_.”

“… Wait, you’re telling me you’re getting them rings _there_?”

“Sure. Sold by Big Hoss in person,” he grins as he gets a thumbs up in return.

“I’m so, _so_ fucking mad I’m not there,” Tyrion groans. “You think you might get me an autograph?”

“I’m sure they won’t mind, but like, your brother gave me a five hundred total budget and the rings I want are _way_ beyond that, so we need you to go online and buy them and they’ll give them to me.”

“… All right,” Tyrion agrees, “I’m in front of a computer anyway. Okay, what do I get?”

Bronn lists the names so he can find them on the website, Tyrion about laughs his ass off when he sees Jaime’s, then buys both — the transaction is over in a minute. Bronn hands the phone over so Tyrion can also have his fan moment as Sandor looks at him like he _really_ doesn’t want to know whatever the hell is their problem. Then after a round of signatures, boxing the rings, getting the certificates and so on, they leave the shop with extreme satisfaction. Then Bronn calls Tyrion again.

“Right. Everything’s boxed proper.”

“Great, but — like, do you even have witnesses?”

“Yeah, your brother recruited three people at the bar for witnessing purposes.”

“Listen, I’m more than glad to play along with this especially if it pisses the family off, but please, tell me it’s a good idea and she’s not a gold digger,” Tyrion groans.

“If it consoles you, she has no fucking clue of who he is _and_ she really couldn’t dig for gold if she tried. Also, both your father and sister would hate her guts.”

“Right. Got it. Keep me updated then.”

“Will do,” Bronn tells him, and closes the call. Jesus H. Christ, this evening is going places he had barely imagined it _could_.

And _then_ he notices what place they’re just walking past.

Huh.

 _Huh_.

He grins to himself and decides he’s going to at least suggest it.

By the time they get as far as the bureau they see see Jaime and Brienne walk out of it looking like two people who are still sober enough to know what the fuck they’re doing while Jaime holds up the marriage certificate.

“And there it is!” Jaime proudly proclaims. “Do you have the rings?”

Bronn raises the bag with the purchases inside. “Excellent, I’ll just trust you on that. _So_ ,” he says, “where do we do this?”

Bronn shrugs, opens up his phone again. “You’ve got a preference? Because it’s choke-full of chapels here.”

“What’s the nearest?” Jaime asks.

Bronn grins. “Well, you want Elvis to marry you, there’s a Graceland-something chapel five minutes from here. We walked in front of there. You can book online.”

Jaime considers it. “What do you say,” he asks Brienne, “should we get Elvis to marry us?”

She considers it, then —

“Sure, why not,” she agrees. “I mean, it’s Vegas. Guess it’d be — appropriate. Also, I’m _not_ going back to the place I got the costume from, they’d kill me.”

“Fine, Elvis it is. How do we book?”

— —

Five minutes later, Bronn is sitting on the bureau’s stairs in between bride and groom with the other three kneeling behind him, looking at the options.

“Okay, shut the fuck up and listen now. You’ve got the beauty of _six_ bloody options, because if you want _two_ Elvis-es you should book in advance.”

“Wait, in _advance_? Damn it. Two would have been grand,” Jaime sighs him. “Well then, what are the options?”

“So, let’s see, never mind that you need to pay extra the sales tax and the officiant fee, you’ve got… _Viva Las Vegas_. Two hundred bucks, you’ve got Elvis escorting the bride and giving her away, two songs, roses for her and for you, a copy of Elvis and Priscilla’s certificate. Geez, I’m sure you couldn’t do without _that_.”

“Seems a bit little,” Jaime says, “and I’m not getting married with two hundred bucks. What’s the next one?”

Bronn clears his throat. “ _Loving you_ , for a moderate three hundred and twenty-nine bucks, there’s everything as before except it includes the picture, a certificate holder and Elvis sings _three_ songs and not two. Of course, if you want to do _better_ than that, you’ve got _Can’t Help Falling in Love_. Four-hundred and twenty-nine bucks, same as before except that you get a digital video of the ceremony and a Facebook live stream if you want it and the bouquet is larger. Of course, if they let us do it because it’s an _internet special_ and I don’t know how much advance they’d need, you can try the _Blue Hawaii_ package, where you’ve got as extras Elvis singing Hawaii-related songs, two leis, two Elvis themed sunglasses. _Or_ , you can spend seven hundred bucks for _Concert with the King_ , _choose_ the jumpsuit, five songs and two hundred and sixty bucks credit for the professional pictures. What’s going to be?”

Jaime thinks about it for a moment. Then —

“Fuck it, I’m not gonna be a Scrooge about my bloody wedding and if I treat my future wife to a two-hundred dollars wedding. Get the last one.”

Brienne’s eyes go wide, her hand reaching behind Bronn to touch his shoulder. “You don’t have to —”

“Oh, come on, it’s what, the same as I’ve spent in alcohol until now? Maybe? Fuck’s sake, let’s do this properly. Bronn, book it.”

“Okay, okay, let me get to the form. Right, you’re lucky, they have a spot in an hour and a half and they could do _that_ one. You’ve got to pick the theme. Gold lame, black leather, white or _aloha_?”

Jaime thinks about it for a moment. “Dunno, I always was partial to the aloha one. Brienne?”

“That’ll work,” she agrees.

“Okay. Aloha suit, payment in cash on location, do you want the Facebook livestream?”

“Do you?” Jaime asks Brienne.

“Can we tag that asshole I mentioned before in it? Because if we can, _yes_.”

“You know what, splendid idea. I can tag my family as a whole. Okay, we’re getting it!”

Bronn specifies they’ll take the livestream.

Fuck, he needs _more_ alcohol.

Then he sends over the form.

A minute later, Jaime’s phone buzzes.

“Look at that,” he says, “we already have a confirmation e-mail. They’re efficient, aren’t they?”

Sure as fuck they are, Bronn agrees, and stands up so those two can go back to french each other and he can warn Tyrion that there’ll be the Facebook livestream.

He thinks he’s going to find some more bloody wine before this wedding starts.

 

***

 

Now: Robert Baratheon has _not_ in any way shape or form regretted dumping the family business and starting a new life in the States when he realized Lyanna was _not_ going to accept his marriage proposals after years and after things with Cersei went sour after holding out for six years.

He has also greatly enjoyed his new job for the last couple of years — he’s always loved singing and he’s always loved Elvis, so marrying people, _dressed as Elvis_ , singing his songs? Absolutely amazing. Also, it pays pretty damned well and if _he_ couldn’t be happy with Lyanna as he had always hoped for before giving up on it, well, at least he’ll make others happy, right? Win/win.

He also had been sorely offended that Renly had come to get married in Vegas and not only picked a day when he was on shift, but didn’t even get married at _his_ working place. Still, he had shrugged and moved on with his list.

The last thing he had expected, though, was finding himself in front of Renly’s historical friend _Brienne Tarth_ who sure as hell is here for _his_ wedding, dressed in a some Disney costume that at least isn’t _too_ tacky, who’s marrying _Jaime Lannister_ of all people, and who seems to not be aware of the mess of a family she’d be marrying into.

Still, none of them are so drunk that they don’t know what the fuck they’re doing, when they come in they’re kissing and they have to be forcefully separated, and Robert is absolutely going to do his job.

He’s also _absolutely_ going to text Renly before he walks Brienne down the aisle, though. Jaime seemed _very much_ amused at the prospect of him officiating, of course they both recognized him, and none of them objected to _him_ marrying them. Then Brienne says something about hating roses, Robert has to tell her that they have no other flower available and Jaime shrugs and asks if they can switch — he’ll take the twelve roses, she can take the boutonniere. Robert sees nothing wrong with _that_ , so he says he’ll warn the girls at the reception about it. He does it, then whips out his phone and opens a new text.

 _How do you feel about your friend outstaging you?_ Robert sends it to Renly’s number, then closes the phone and goes to don his _aloha_ suit.

Oh, he’s going to enjoy the _shit_ out of this.

He’s also going to ask Shireen to check the livestream and inform him of Tywin and Cersei’s reactions since he has a feeling that Stannis would _not_ help him out with that, should he ask.

 

***

 

Tyrion doesn’t even have to look for the stream — he gets notified at ten in the morning, which means those two are getting married at two in the fucking morning.

He immediately logs in on Facebook.

The screen turns from black to salmon pink, showing the small chapel. Jaime is standing in the corner in an opened, rumpled white shirt and dress pants, and — he’s _holding the bouquet of flowers that’s usually for the bride_? The fuck? Then the music to _Love Me Tender_ starts, and —

Woah.

The last thing Tyrion was imagining was that _Robert Baratheon_ in sunglasses and that fucking white and gold Hawaiian Elvis suit would come inside, _singing_ it without going out of tune, giving away a woman who’s about his height, slightly broader, with straw-blonde hair, pretty blue eyes, a thrice-broken nose, freckles all over her face and a face that would _not_ make the company’s advertising team, wearing some kind of medieval-looking cape with some flowers pinned to her shirt, who looks _absolutely overjoyed_ of marrying his brother.

Who’s looking at her as if she’s the best thing that ever happened to him.

What the fucking _fuck_.

He doesn’t dare glancing at the comment section as the woman — right, _Brienne_ , she’s tagged — moves next to Jaime while Robert keeps on singing around them. The only two people in attendance are a woman with short dark hair completely dressed in leather and a redhead who looks out of some early nineties grunge wet dream. Bronn is on Jaime’s side while some guy with dark hair and a fairly scarred face is on Brienne’s.

Tyrion doesn’t even wanna know _how_ they found the witnesses.

He watches the entire ceremony in a mixture of horror and fascination as Robert goes into _Burning Love_ after the first round of vows, _then_ he sings _Can’t Help Falling in Love_ as they exchange those terribly tacky rings _he_ bought before and damn but he thinks he’s going to make fun of Jaime forever about it, not that he regrets having done that for a second. Then they start exchanging vows on Robert’s cue and Tyrion doesn’t hear anything farther after _I swear I won’t ever leave you at the Heartbreak Hotel_ because he’s too busy laughing so hard until he cries, which doesn’t change when Robert tells them that he has a personal recommendation for them and starts singing them _A Little Less Conversation_ while Bronn and whoever the other bloke is sign the documents for the witnesses. The two women in attendance look like they’re having the time of their life, at least.

 _Then_ Robert says that they need just a last send-off.

Tyrion only dares glancing at the comments when he sees those two lip-locking as Robert starts singing _Viva Las Vegas_.

He immediately closes them just as a shriek is heard from downstairs.

He’s _fairly_ sure Cersei is screaming that Jaime lost his fucking mind.

Tyrion immediately texts Bronn that if the target was also pissing Cersei off, they _absolutely_ hit that target.

Well, he kind of can’t wait to meet the sister in law…

If they don’t get a divorce within the day, of course.

 

***

 

Brienne opens her eyes, blinking.

The sun is shining outside, the alarm reads three PM, she’s only wearing her costume’s shirt, her trousers and cape are on the ground, there’s a copy of Elvis and Priscilla’s certificate on the table, there’s a heavy sapphires ring on her finger —

Holy _fuck_.

She immediately sits up, her head pounding, and regrets it at once because it was _too fucking abrupt_.

Then she glances down at her side, where a hand is grasping at her thigh when before it was on her hip.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Clear, large green eyes are staring up at her, and he sure as hell seems way less freaked out than her.

“Hi,” he groans, sitting up as well. “Damn, what time did we go to bed last night?”

Brienne suddenly remembers him telling her that if she was Phoebus he should be up to the task, and he had found someplace who’d deliver him a cheap Esmeralda red costume at three AM.

They _definitely_ didn’t crash before six. The sheets are soiled, her _legs_ are covered in fluids, she definitely remembers that the sex was fucking _great_ , and he’s giving her such a sweet grin, her stomach is contorting on itself in the good way.

“At dawn,” she says. “I think I need coffee.”

“Fuck, same. You think there’s a diner somewhere? This hotel is four-stars, but breakfast sucks.”

“We’re in _Las Vegas_ ,” she says, “I’d be surprised if we _didn’t_ find a diner, overpriced or not. But —” She closes her eyes, opens them again. “I guess, we should talk maybe?”

He blinks. “Wait, are you regretting this already without even giving me a chance?”

Wait. _What_? He sounds like he actually meant it.

“No,” she says at once. “I mean, I didn’t — but I just figured we should, uh, be on the same length? I guess? Like, it was a short notice decision.”

He looks a bit relieved at that. _Seriously_?

“Hey,” he says, “I might’ve been _somewhat_ drunk when I proposed, but when I decided I was into you, I _wasn’t_ half as much. And I tend to take decisions with my gut, but I think I wouldn’t _get married_ if I didn’t want it.”

Her hand finds his before she can think about it. “So — you’re sure about this?”

“I’m just saying,” he grins, tanging his fingers with hers, “that I might have another proposal for you.”

“… Shoot.”

“Let’s give this a year. It works out, we come back and do it _properly_ because I don’t want to get stick with Bronn’s fucking _Pawn Stars_ rings for the rest of my life. It doesn’t work out, we get an annulment and friends as before. What do you say?”

Brienne doesn’t know _how_ she has somehow lucked out this much yesterday, but — sounds like a good proposal, to her.

“I’m saying yes,” she tells him cautiously, and then his mouth is on hers again.

It’s a long time before they actually get off the bed, wash and find the diner.

But as they drink coffee in their _matching Elvis sunglasses_ that they got gifted at the chapel anyway because Robert insisted on _giving them a gift_ even if it wasn’t included in the package and as they almost spit it out as they check each others’s Facebooks, she decides that maybe, _maybe_ , there’s a chance they might not need to get an annulment after all.

Now she just has to decide _how_ to tell her father that she married a legit _billionaire_ in Las Vegas of all places.

But she can worry about that later.

Much, much later.

 

 

_One year later_

 

 

Tyrion _had_ thought there was no possible way his brother could outdo himself when it came to the subject of _his wedding_.

From now on, he’s not going to ever doubt the fact that Jaime actually _could_.

He stares at Bronn, who’s trying to _not_ double over laughing when _this damned ceremony hasn’t even started_. He should be outraged that _he_ was the witness and Jaime didn’t ask _him_ , but they said they wanted to re-do this with at least the same people as the first time, and Tyrion could understand the sentiment. Which is why he’s standing in first line, staring at the empty part of the chapel, with the two women who had attended the first wedding last year, while Sandor Clegane (who, turns out, was from London as well and is now working with _Bronn_ in his security guard agency) is on Brienne’s side of the aisle and at least this time _some more_ people are attending, including Aunt Genna and Addam, who look _at least_ amused. Of course, nothing tops Robert Baratheon dressed _in the Elvis get-up he used to marry them_ along with Tommen and Myrcella (Joffrey refused to come), who look beyond excited. Well, at least this is _honest_ tacky wedding material, he decides.

Then again, the cherry on top of the cake is Jaime waiting at the so-called altar (because it’s _not_ an altar) wearing —

The music starts as the door opens.

 _Science fiction, double feature,_ echoes through the chapel as Brienne walks inside, in jeans, shirt, cardigan and light brown jacket. Which matches his brother’s light pink _short_ -ish dress, baby blue cardigan and white shoes. And while her father is laughing his ass off in the first row opposite Tyrion, Renly Baratheon and Loras Tyrell usher her in while dressed as goddamned _Eddie and Columbia_.

Oh, right.

Because after a year of being married to each other those two are _absolutely_ smitten with each other and apparently never were happier, which means they decided to renew their vows without being half-drunk, but of course they had to do it in Las Vegas _again_.

Fine enough.

Except that then they found out that they could do themed weddings that weren’t necessarily hosted by bloody Elvis, and they went and picked the one that would piss his father and Cersei off _more_ , or at least Tyrion thinks it has to be half the reason.

Okay, Jaime _always_ was into the Rocky Horror Picture Show since he stumbled into that movie being aired at two AM on television when he was a teenager, but Tyrion didn’t think it would be enough for the _themed wedding_.

Where bride and groom can go dressed _as Brad and Janet_.

Which is what they’re doing right now.

Loras and Renly bring Brienne in front of the curtain in the middle of the room. There’s a Riff Raff impersonator and a Magenta one on the sides.

Tyrion, knowing that this vows renewal is _also_ being livestreamed on Facebook, feels cold sweat all over his face as the curtain rises and leaves the way open for…

“ _How do you do, I see you’ve met my faithful handyman_ —”

Right.

The _Frank n’ Furter impersonator_.

Who is _going to marry them again_.

Tyrion _has_ to admit it — this one is actually pretty damned good. Dark hair, dark eyes, he’s not even wearing a wig, looks fairly damn good in that corset and high heels and cape. He offered him a cigarette outside the place before — his name was Theon _something_ , Tyrion’s sure.

Anyway, the fact that he sings _all_ of _Sweet Transvestite_ while circling both his brother and Brienne, who look about to also crack up in laughter every other moment, is something he _doesn’t_ want to think about when it comes to his father and Cersei’s faces as they watch the livestream.

At least _everyone_ , including the audience, is half-dancing. Tyrion decides to try and _move_ as well if only to not stick out like a sore thumb.

That is, until the song is finally done, those two move in front of each other, holding hands, and Tyrion decides that he could have lived without ever seeing his brother in a damned _baby pink dress_. Not that it doesn’t suit him, but _seriously_.

God, the way Probably-Named-Theon says _I see you shivering with antici — pation_ most likely gave his father ten ulcers at once.

Maybe this wedding could be a very good idea, if it’s the case.

“My name is Frank N. Furter, _Doctor_ Frank N’ Furter to _you_ ,” the guy says, sounding _absolutely_ nonplussed, “and I’m here today to renew the wedding vows between… Jaime and Brienne, though I was about to say Janet and Brad, but _never mind me_.”

Half of the room laughs, groom and bride included.

Okay. Fine. It _was_ a bit funny.

“Marriage is a wonderful adventure, a journey taken by two, and a commitment as you well know, a commitment of the life and the love you have for each other.”

Okay, _fine_ , that was — not too bad, Tyrion supposes. Given at how those two are looking at each other, he’s not even that wrong even if it’s obviously scripted. He goes ahead, having them swear to take each other for wife and husband _again_ and look after each other and to love each other, honor each other and respect each other in sickness and health _again_ after one year, and when Tyrion notices that _both_ witnesses are about to snort out loud same as the not-so-newlyweds he decides that this renewal has just transcended the realms of Being Extra. Not that he ever had issues with Being Extra, but still, it’s a level he hadn’t thought he’d ever experience.

He glances at his right. His nephews are looking so excited they could burst.

Tyrion is sure Cersei is _not_ appreciating whatever she’s seeing on the livestream right now, _including_ her kids seeming to enjoy their uncle’s _second_ wedding.

“Of course I do,” Jaime says. “Best proposal I’ve ever made.”

Brienne rolls her eyes. “Sure I do,” she says, “I’m pretty sure we’re _not_ going to Reno tomorrow.”

“That’s the spirit!” Maybe-Theon proclaims. “Now please, Jaime, look into her eyes and repeat after me —”

Jaime repeats dutifully that he’s going to take her to be his wife, respect her, love her and cherish her and that they’ll share their life together and so on. Brienne does the same, adding an _again_ to ‘I’m going to take you as my husband’, which admittedly cracks up the entirety of the room Tyrion included.

Maybe-Theon grins and tells them to get the rings, and at that point both Bronn and Sandor show up with _new_ rings that are way less tacky than the ones from the pawn shop even if _way_ pricier — but at least they match, both white gold with a small sapphire for him and emerald for her, and Robert openly sniffs into a handkerchief as they exchange them.

They’re also looking at each other like they totally would make out right the fuck now, which they proceed on doing the moment smoke appears from the back of the room and a Janet impersonator appears singing _Over at Frankenstein’s Place_. And _then_ some people from the staff hand all of them candles to wave along with the entire cast of impersonators at the altar.

Bronn moves back to his side as his brother and Brienne go light candles in front of the… _not altar_.

“This is even _better_ than the other one,” Bronn whispers.

A second later, Maybe-Theon asks them if they swear a vow to _touch-a-touch-a-touch-a-touch-each other and feel dirty_ , at which they _both_ go and cop a feel off each other before making out _for real_ , again, and Tyrion knows for sure that neither of them is _ever_ getting invited anywhere his father is attending.

Fuck.

Maybe he should consider doing this, too, if it really has that effect.

Then he hears it —

“Well, it’s _Time Warp everybody_!” Maybe-Theon shouts as he sits down on that terribly tacky red throne —

“Lannister,” Bronn hisses, dragging him from behind the bench to the empty space in the aisle, “like _hell_ you’re not going to do this.”

“I’m _not_ dancing the bloody _Time Warp_ ,” Tyrion protests weakly.

“Your nephews are doing it, _Sandor Clegane_ is doing it, I _know_ you’ve always wanted to do it but chickened out from going to showings where people would do it all the time and _that_ actually was one of the reasons those two picked _this_ wedding and not the James Bond one —”

“Wait, they did _what_?”

“You think your brother didn’t know? Come on, it’s just a jump to the left,” Bronn says, and — shit. _Everyone_ is actually doing this.

For a moment he glances at his brother and Brienne doing the _pelvic thrust_ in front of each other while holding hands, then he decides to actually look _anywhere else_ , and —

Fuck it, he decides as he stops looking at them and actually goes with it, it’s fun.

He doesn’t even try to move when he ends up in between Bronn and Robert, who seems to be having the time of his life. Renly and Loras are about making out in the corner as well, not that he’s anywhere near surprised, his brother and Brienne are totally making out _while doing the entire choreography_ , their new rings shining at their hands.

Huh, he decides as he puts his hands on his hips for the second time and goes for the damned pelvic thrust without overthinking it.

It _is_ fun.

Who’d have thought.

— —

An hour later, as they get through their third round of not-so-bad diner food Brienne clears her throat.

“Uhm,” she says, “I suppose that before you all get drunk out of your minds, it’s time to make the announcement.”

“Why,” Bronn asks, “aren’t _you_ getting drunk?”

She half-glares at him. “I’d be delighted, but given that we found out _this morning_ that I’m pregnant, maybe it’s not the best idea.”

“ _This morning_?” Tyrion asks.

“Yeah, well,” Jaime grins, reaching for a handful of chips, “wasn’t planned, but I have a feeling we forgot the condoms in a haste last month.”

“It was worth it, though,” Brienne grins back, her hand grasping his. “Wasn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” Jaime agrees. “So, maybe when we renew the vows ten years from now the kid can bring flowers, how about that?”

“I like how you think,” Brienne says, and a moment later they’re making out like teenagers.

Again.

Tyrion snorts into his drink as he turns off his Facebook notifications — they’re exploding by now.

Sure as hell they might have known each other for three hours when they married (and that was what their father protested for a week about, not that they even heard him) but it _did_ work out great, didn’t it? Hell, Jaime finally quit that PA job he always hated, _she_ quit the office job she also apparently hated, they used his PA-earned money to open a gym where she teaches fencing to kids and he does the managing and he’s never seen him happier. As far as _she_ is concerned, he hadn’t known her before but they’re just… really perfect for each other, and that marriage is certainly working _way_ better than _anyone else’s_ in Tyrion’s circle, and if they’re going for kids now…

Well then. He’s looking forward to see how they outdo themselves with their ten-year renewal ceremony.

He has a feeling it’s _definitely_ happening.

 

End.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want to spoil the vows renewal type of wedding so I didn't, but if you want to see how it actually works, [there's an adorbs video here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VFcWkAAtJ98) and another one [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gmGpzKFVvBs).


End file.
